


Cokeworth

by Jaxon



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Compliant, Cokeworth, Gen, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-29
Updated: 2017-11-29
Packaged: 2019-02-08 12:56:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12864960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaxon/pseuds/Jaxon
Summary: As a magical child trapped in the Muggle world, Severus lay in bed dreaming of his future - of witches and wizards, potions and dragons - and most of all, escaping the poverty his parents were trapped in......but as an adult on the cusp of a fierce magical war, when Severus is sent back to resume a life amongst his old peers, he finds himself torn between his mission and the life he'll leave behind...





	Cokeworth

“I think,” said Dumbledore, leaning back in his chair, “that you should make arrangements to be elsewhere during the summer.”

Snape frowned. “Elsewhere?”

“I understand that this will be an inconvenience for you, Severus.  I do not underestimate how much of your life has been spent at Hogwarts.”

The silence hung heavily between the two men.

Eventually, reluctantly, Dumbledore spoke again.  “I am aware that you think of Hogwarts as your home.”

“But you’re sending me away?”  Snape couldn’t hide the note of truculence that invaded his speech.

“It is not a punishment. I believe it prudent for you to appear as if you do not enjoy spending every minute of every day within my pocket.”

“Do you not think that if the Dark Lord returns-“

“- _when_  he returns,” Dumbledore interrupted, forcefully.

“- _when_ the Dark Lord returns, that he would look favourably upon a spy who knew Dumbledore’s routine inside out?”

“Knowing your Dark Lord as I do, I think he would find your actions during term time sufficient.” Dumbledore held up a hand to stem Snape’s protestations.  “Furthermore, it gives you both an alibi and a bargaining chip.  It shows that you do not intend to spend your free time with me – proving, perhaps, that you’re not as loyal to me as you first appear. Secondly, it gives him the opportunity to tell you to follow me more closely.”  Dumbledore gave a satisfied smile.  “And he much prefers it when he thinks a plan is his own idea.”

The silence returned – and then, Snape nodded.  At this, Dumbledore reached into his desk drawer.

“I am aware that your parents passed some time ago,” Dumbledore said, handing Snape a bundle of papers.  “I made arrangements on your behalf to have their assets-“

Snape harrumphed, and Dumbledore peered curiously at him over his spectacles.

“Meagre they may have been, Severus, but they did exist.”  He took off his glasses and shined them on his sleeve.  “I have spoken to my contacts in the Muggle world, and they assure me that the house has been sealed.”

“The house?  The house was tied.”

“I believe,” Dumbledore said, patiently indicating towards the paperwork in Snape’s hands, “that with the closure of the mill, your parents were paying an increased rent to the landlord.”

“Yes.”

“And when your mother passed, your father used her life insurance to buy the house outright.”

Severus shrugged.  “I didn’t ask.”

“As your father’s next of kin, the house is yours.”

At this, Severus gave a sharp bark of laughter.  “Cokeworth? You want me to go back to Cokeworth? I’ve not stayed there since…” He trailed off, and stared up at the lofty ceiling.  “It’s been a long time.”

Dumbledore stood, and moved over to the window, looking out over the grounds.  “I trust you remember how to behave amongst the Muggle population?”

“I wasn’t great at it the first time.”

Dumbledore turned back to stare at Snape.  “It is paramount that you behave accordingly.  My intention is that you will remain at Hogwarts for as long as possible.”  He looked back through the window again, appraising the view.  “However, we must prepare for all eventualities and you should be aware that the time may come when you cannot remain at Hogwarts.”

“There are many places within the wizarding wor-”

“Severus,” Dumbledore said, sharply, his gaze still fixed through the window.  “Please understand that I am not suggesting that you may have to spend a week or two in Hogsmeade with Madam Rosmerta, or a month with Tom at the Leaky Cauldron.”  He drew in a breath.  “There may come a time, for your own safety, and the safety of those around you, when you must hide in the Muggle world.”

Snape groaned, and Dumbledore turned back to face him once more.

“Do not take this lightly, Severus.  Your successful passing in the Muggle world could be the difference between-”

“-accomplishing my mission, or failing,” Snape intoned, miserably.

Dumbledore’s eyes narrowed. “I was going to say the difference between your living and dying.”

Severus stood, not breaking eye contact with the headmaster.  “I think we both know the two statements are one and the same.”

* * *

It had taken a whole forty three seconds before Snape let out a litany of swear words, cursing his mother, his father, the Dark Lord and Dumbledore in equal measure.  He angrily tossed his shrunken case onto the old armchair, and glared at his surroundings.

It was dark, dirty and dingy.  And worst of all - it stunk.

Spinner’s End had always smelled odd, even when he was a kid - the dirt from the river intermingled with the ever present odour of damp sheets and overcooked cabbage.  Sealing the house shut for several years had made the air stale, causing the stench to be pervading.  
  
Snape flicked his wand, and all of the windows lurched open simultaneously, groaning in their swollen frames.  He rolled his eyes and flicked his wand again, causing the wood to repair, and fall back into its original place.  He peered at one frame closely, disdainfully appraising the mould and the flaking paint, and he flicked his wand again.  Household charms weren’t his forte, but a decade of teaching Potions had him well versed in bleaching charms, which cleared the worst of the mildew.  
  
He flicked his wand over and over, sanding the wood down, and then magically adding a new layer of paint.  He only dared paint the inside, lest the neighbours start gossiping at the house’s sudden makeover, with no ladder in sight.  He was quietly pleased at the result, but the faint sneer on his face didn’t abate; the addition of paint fumes certainly hadn’t helped to reduce the horrible smell.

He strode purposefully through the dingy house, silently casting with and without his wand. Dumbledore had offered him the use of one of the house elves, but Snape felt it a little incongruous.  He gave a shudder at the thought of one of the neighbours spying such a creature through the window; he’d be excommunicated before he’d even unpacked.

He glanced outside, a sudden fear gripping him that someone would see him waving his wand – and he hastily moved around the house drawing the faded curtains.  By hand.  He decided that he would replace them as soon as possible; it was one thing for them to be hideous, but they were so worn and frayed, he feared they’d fall apart the next time he sneezed.

It took hours, but Snape finally had the house something like.  He wasn’t going for homeowner of the year – but he wanted to rid the house of his parents, and the misery they brought.  He’d vanished their bed with the sagging mattress, and his own childhood one for good measure.  It had always been uncomfortable and it gave him a sense of pleasure to send it tumbling into the ether, or wherever it was that McGonagall had told him vanished objects disappeared to.  He’d never really listened that closely in Transfiguration classes.

His efforts with painting the window frames had taken rather more out of him than he’d expected.  He didn’t fancy redecorating both floors, but nor could he stand to stare at the four walls of grimy, nicotine stained wallpaper.  He pondered it for a short time, and then headed back to Hogwarts.  He claimed some of the benching from one of the lesser used dungeons.  He felt no guilt; Albus had sent him to this hellish hole – it was the least he could contribute.

Shrinking the wood down was an effort, and it was only after his fifth journey back and forth that he realised that he should’ve recruited one of the house elves to assist after all. Thinking it over, he called for them to move his bed from his quarters to the house, and scribbled a note to Albus requesting a new four poster for the dungeons.  After his final trip, he settled down for a short break, and then set to work breaking the benches down and conjuring a series of bookshelves to cover every available surface – doors included.

Several hours later, he stood in his childhood bedroom and grinned, pleased at his progress.  He pulled the curtain to one side, pushed the window wide open, and just like he did as a child, he sat on the sill, his legs dangling outside.  He sat silently, and could almost hear his dad yelling at him to get back inside, but it was just the wind whistling through the estate.

His old room overlooked the small concrete yard at the back of the house, and he pursed his lips.  It’d been many years since he’d needed to use the magically amplified whistle that his mother had taught him, which only magically affiliated creatures could hear.  He licked his lips, and then brought his finger and thumb to his mouth. He blew softly at first, experimentally – checking that he could still make the required sound.

And then, he blew a sustained note, followed by the uplifting trill that the Hogwarts owls were trained to acknowledge.  A quick glance over the back yards of the neighbouring houses confirmed that he’d done it correctly, as nobody’s head had turned.  An owl may have seemed an odd call, especially from such a distance, but Snape was in no hurry, and he didn’t want to head back to Hogwarts again.  He could wait.  Two hours later, his favourite owl streamed through the sky, silhouetted by the late evening sunset.

Snape beamed for the first time all day as the creature landed in his lap, and then hopped up his arm, and up onto his shoulder.  Isocrates’ talons bit into his skin through his robes, but Snape didn’t care, running one longer finger down Isocrates’ beak, and allowing him to nibble at the skin around his fingernail.

He knew it was ridiculous and self-indulgent, but he walked around the house, murmuring to Isocrates as he went, pointing out the work that he’d done.  Upon reaching the bathroom, he caught sight of himself in the reflection of the bathroom cabinet and he grimaced.  He headed straight back to his old bedroom, and with a final nuzzle of the bird’s beak, he sent him off to Diagon Alley, entrusted with a large mail order.

Snape had happily purchased as many books as he could think of to fill his brand new shelves.  He didn’t have many at Hogwarts, as he preferred to save his money and instead make extensive use of Hogwarts’ library, and Dumbledore’s private collection.  He made an exception for his regular delivery of Potions related journals and books, as he liked to scribble corrections and comments in the margins, and he’d learnt in his first term at Hogwarts that Irma Pince didn’t take too kindly to such vandalism.

* * *

His books had flown in thick and fast, and Snape knew that he’d quickly become Flourish and Blotts’ favourite customer.  He’d filled his many shelves full of dangerous, dark and technical tomes – things that Pince would never have allowed into general circulation. Granted, she did allow him access to most items in the restricted stack, although it usually took several days of wheedling, begging and charming the old harridan.  He wouldn’t miss that at all.

In fact, he wouldn’t miss company full stop, Pince or otherwise.  He’d had his fill of whining, whinging brats – and that was just the rest of the staff.  The idea of seven weeks of silence was one that filled him with glee, and he fully intended it to fill it with the three ‘r’s:  reading, relaxation and research.

Fortunately, he’d enough equipment in his private lab at Hogwarts to shrink it down and transport it to his house instead of buying new.  The most arduous part of the operation was heading out to the edge of the grounds of Hogwarts so he could Apparate.  It wasn’t the distance that bothered him, as despite his slender frame, he was fairly fit – the ever changing footprint of the castle saw to that – but because Scotland’s weather remained disrespectful of the seasons, and despite being June, the wind and the rain lashed ferociously at him as he focused on his Apparation.

Thankfully, he didn’t find Apparating too taxing; it had been a relief when he’d discovered that he had a natural aptitude for it.  He’d been embarrassingly useless at flying in his early years at Hogwarts, and he’d dreaded every flying lesson they’d had, because it always started with him being embroiled in a five minute tussle with the broom – and that was just getting it off the floor and into his hand.  All whilst James Potter and Sirius Black stood and sniggered.

He had Lucius Malfoy to thank for him becoming even halfway proficient.  It was the first summer Lucius had invited him to stay, and he’d blushed a furious shade of red when they’d headed down to the Malfoy pitch and his lack of skill was put on show.  Malfoy, to his credit, had merely laughed, and spent the better part of a fortnight tutoring the teen – until, by the end of his stay, Snape could almost catch Lucius in a looping, swirling chase.  He still wasn’t keen on brooms, but at least he could now hold his own.

But the experience had troubled him, and Snape could still recall the bile that had risen in the back of his mouth as he’d taken part in his first Apparation lesson, terrified that he would be useless, and Potter would lord it over him again – but thankfully, his fears had been unfounded, and he’d passed on his first attempt.

Despite his mastery at Apparation, Snape found the day tiring – condensing his entire workshop to the size of his pocket took an incredible amount of magic, as he had to carefully consider the original size and density of the objects.  Apparating yourself was one thing; Apparating with objects was entirely another, and one wrong calculation could lead to a severe splinching – and with nobody magical in Cokeworth, Snape didn’t want to try his luck.

Most magical people favoured transporting their items via other methods, but Snape didn’t fancy the company which was sure to be found on the public Knight Bus, nor did he want to consider Dumbledore’s favourite means of transport – the idea of full grown Thestrals charging through his Muggle neighbourhood gave him a slight tremor in his chest, whether they were invisible to many or not.

After his final trip, he stood in the living room and happily pulled off his sodden robes, leaving him standing in only his underwear.  Thankfully, it was warm in Spinner’s End despite its late hour – the unusual heat a remnant of a hot summer’s day in England, but when he went to spell his robes dry, he saw several streaks of mud from the Hogwarts’ grounds splashed up the back.  He screwed them up, and threw them to the floor – they’d have to be washed.  That was another thing; he needed some spare clothes.

It was, of course, at that moment that his neighbour knocked.

Cursing, Snape unconsciously reached for his robes – and then he stopped.  Surely his dirty voluminous teaching robes were more suspect than… He looked down, scowling at his skinny, scrawny frame.  He didn’t much want to answer the door in his underpants either.  Concentrating - for Transfiguration had never been his favourite subject - he turned a cushion from the sofa into a shirt.  It was a little too small – he avoided mirrors as a force of habit, so his efforts at gauging size were off – and the pattern was hideous, a vomit of faded crimson and golden swirls, just like the cushion had been. Nonetheless, he shrugged it on and deftly buttoned the lower part as he answered the door.

And what a sight he was. His long hair was still dripping from the Scottish rain, and his skinny, pale legs shone a brilliant white in the darkness.  His shirt was atrocious – but his delayed reaction and relative state of undress meant that his neighbour could conclude only one thing.

“Oh!  Oh, I’m so sorry!  Were you in the bath?”

He couldn’t quite place the woman before him; he vaguely recognised her, but he couldn’t say for certain when they’d met.  Self-consciously, he ran his hand through his damp hair.  “Yes, I…”  He trailed off, embarrassed.  “This isn’t my usual attire.”

To his surprise, the woman laughed.  A high pitched, tinkling laugh – which didn’t quite suit a woman of her advanced age and sturdy stature.  “I should hope not!  Gods, man, what do you look like?!”  She laughed again, and Snape could feel the flush growing up his chest, ready to erupt out onto his face.

“I wasn’t expecting any callers,” he said, defensively.

Again, she laughed.  “Oh no?  A young man like you at this time of night, eh?  I bet they’re lined up around the block.”  She laughed again – it was getting irritating – and then she gave him a knowing wink.  “Now, I promise that I only came bothering you because Mick – you’ll remember Mick, of course – he’s had a fall.  And well-”

Snape raised his eyebrow, tugging his horrid shirt tight against him.  “Well?”

“You could help him home, perhaps?  I saw the light, and I know you’ve only just got back,” she smiled, and put her hand in his, “welcome back, son, so I wouldn’t ask but I’ve tried ‘most everyone else-”

He gave a slight nod. “I thought I heard knocking.”  
  
“They’ve all gone over the river to the summer carnival.”  She looked a little put out.  “Thought they’d be back by now.  Still, was time that I could’ve lifted him meself, but me left knee has seen better days, and as for me gammy hip-”

“Of course,” Snape said, desperate to curtail the woman’s tale, and her list of injuries and ailments. “Where is he?”

“Down the Crown.”  She frowned at Snape’s blank look, and then she realised.  “Course, it were the George in your day.”

“I see.  Too much falling down water?”

This time her laughter was infectious.  “Oh, you are your father’s boy, aren’t you?”  She smiled fondly at him, and brushed his cheek with the back of her large hand.  “Now, our Terry’s sat him up in the bar with a pint, so there’s no rush.  Get yourself dry and dressed first.”

“I assure you, I had no intention of roaming the streets like this.”

“Thank heavens for small mercies!”

Snape nodded his goodbye, shut the door and glanced at the clock.  It was far too late to shop, and a quick glance at the soft furnishings meant that he wasn’t keen to try out his Transfiguration skills again.  There was only one thing for it – so he donned his soggy robes, and with a loud crack, he Disapparated.

* * *

“Ah, Severus!  What a-” Narcissa paused for a second too long, “-wonderful surprise.  Please, do take a seat.”

Snape waved his hand, and indicated to his soggy clothing.  “I am terribly sorry to intrude in such an uncouth fashion, Narcissa.” He gave the slightest of bows towards her.  “If Lucius could spare me just a moment of his time, I would be most grateful.”

Narcissa gave a slight nod of assent, and then called for Dobby, who appeared instantly.  “Tell Mr Malfoy he is required in his study.  Now, elf!”  Dobby disappeared and Narcissa flashed Snape a brilliant white smile. “This way.”

Snape rolled his eyes as he walked behind Narcissa; he knew the way to his best friend’s study, and hardly needed Narcissa to lead him through the corridors.  He knew this was some bizarre power game style punishment that purebloods performed when scruffy halfbloods abruptly descended upon their ridiculous manor with no regard for social niceties.

But still, he could apologise tomorrow – for now, he needed Lucius’ assistance.

“Severus!” Lucius’ voice boomed across the study, as Narcissa ushered Snape through the door, loudly slamming it in his wake.  Snape jumped at the noise, and Lucius smirked.  “Ah, darling Cissy.  Never changes.  Firewhisky, my friend?”

“I can’t stop.”

Lucius paused, already half way to the grandiose fireplace.  He slowly turned.  “You can’t stop?”  His smirk grew ever wider.  “I say, old chap – you appear out of nowhere at,” he checked the clock on the mantle, “a quarter to eleven, soaked through to the bone and…” He stared evenly at Snape as he enunciated his words:  “You. Cannot.  Stop?”

Snape steeled himself to stare at the wall, instead of letting his gaze drop to the floor as was his instinct.  He hated it when Malfoy treated him like an errant toddler.  “I wouldn’t have intruded had it not been an emergency.”

Lucius clicked his tongue against his teeth, as he resumed his walk to the mantelpiece.  He took the decanter from the side and poured a splash into a crystal glass.  “Well, you won’t mind if I indulge, will you?”

Snape inclined his head. “Truth be told, Malf,” he said, invoking Lucius’ schoolboy nickname.  “I’m in a bit of a spot.”

“Dumblebore?”

In spite of himself, Snape grinned.  “No. If only.”  He took a deep breath.  “You remember where I grew up?”

“I try to forget.”

“I had some business. Back home.”

“Oh yes?”

Snape rattled on, desperate not to go into too much detail.  “I require a suit.  A Muggle suit.  Urgently.”

“How urgently?  Next week?  This week?”  At Snape’s head shake, Lucius frowned.  “Tomorrow?”

“Now.”

“Now?”  Lucius almost spat his firewhisky across the room. “You want me rustle up a Muggle suit for you,  _now_?  Dear boy, I don’t just have them lying around, you know.”

“Can you help, or not?” Snape’s tone was sulky.

Lucius grinned, before clicking his fingers.  Once more, Dobby appeared – only this time, he was carrying a measuring tape.

“Oh, you cannot be-“

“Off.”

Snape glared at Lucius. “Can’t he just go and get any suit?”

“And risk it not fitting? How ridiculous.”  Lucius snapped his fingers, causing Snape’s robes to slide to the floor.  Before Snape could as much as flinch, Dobby measured him, and with a sharp snap of his own fingers, covered the skinny man back up.

A blinding flash of light saw Dobby disappear, and then just as quickly re-appear, new clothes draped over one arm.  He bowed deeply before Snape, presenting the clothes to him.  Snape glanced over at Lucius, who raised his glass.

“Turn around, Malf,” said Snape.

“I’ve seen it before. I saw it ten seconds ago!” Lucius protested.  Snape glared at Lucius until the older man turned his back to him.  “Honestly, the longer you spend in that dungeon, the more prudish you become.”

Snape ignored his comments, and shrugged out of his damp robes.  He hastily donned the crisp white shirt, buttoning it up securely before wriggling in to the skin-tight black trousers.  “Bloody hell, these are tight,” he grumbled, causing Lucius to turn.

“Nonsense.  They’re the perfect fit.”  Lucius took a swig of his drink.  “You’re always hiding in layers, and oversized outfits.”

Snape glared at him as he pulled on the waistcoat, happily running his finger along the golden chain that ran to the pocket.  He followed it, and to his surprise, it was attached to a stunning watch.

“Jacket?”

Snape picked it up and slung it over one shoulder, his dirty and discarded robes clenched in his other fist. “A little too warm for the jacket, but I’ll take it with me.”

“Off so soon?”

“I am deeply grateful, Malf.”

“I shall remember that, Severus.”  Lucius raised his glass once more.  “Have a fun evening.”

* * *

The wolf whistle was piercing.

The woman from earlier was stood at the bar, a large smile across her face as Snape walked through the door.  “Now aren’t you a sight for sore eyes, son?”

Not for the first time that evening, Snape flushed at her words.  “You wanted me to give Mick a hand?”

The woman indicated to a man who was sitting with a small group at a table.  Three elderly men were perched on a bench.  A fourth was sat on a chair – his bare foot resting on a stool, his discarded boot on the floor.  Dominoes were spread across the table, along with various notes and coins, indicating that a serious round of betting was ongoing.  “I think he’s settled in for a while, if you fancied a drink?”

Snape’s heart sank. His Muggle debit card was in his pocket, but it was no use in a backwater pub like this.  “Cash machine?”

Again, her laughter peeled through the room.  “Not round ‘ere.  Across the river and up town’s the nearest.  It’d take you a good forty minutes there and back.  Dave?”

The elderly barman stared at the woman through rheumy eyes.  “What?”

“You can stand a drink for Mickey’s saviour, can’t you?  He’s going to help him home.  Those lot over there haven’t got a chance of lifting him.”

“Then tell Mick to stand him a drink,” he grumbled.  “I’m not a bleedin’ charity.”  He stared at Snape, anger flashing in his eyes.  “Comin’ in ‘ere with his posh suit and his fancy manners.  Where d’yer find ‘im?”

“It’s Toby’s lad!” the woman hissed, far too loudly to be subtle, and the whole pub fell silent, all eyes now fixed upon him.  Snape shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other, and pulled at the stiff collar at his neck.

“Well, I never.”  Dave heaved himself up from his stool, walked around the bar and held his hand out.  Snape took it – his fingers were large and warm, and the skin on his palm was roughened. It was an absolute contrast to his own pale, slender hands.  “Toby Snape’s boy.  My God, lad, I never once thought I’d set eyes on yer again.”  His grin was wide and warm, revealing several missing molars. “I remember yer when yer was this high,” he said, raising his hand to his hip.  “Scrawny little beggar, yer was – and look at yer now.  A right beanpole.”

Dave returned around the bar, dropping his dish rag on the pumps.  “What’re yer havin’?  Same as yer old man?”

Entirely baffled by the array of drinks on display, Snape nodded.  If he’d learnt one thing in the Dark Lord’s service, it was to shut up and agree when things appeared to be going well.  He watched, surprised, as Dave shared the pint glass between one pump and then another.  “Half and half, he was partial to,” he proclaimed, resting the glass on the mat. Snape watched the drink settle and took a small sip.  To his surprise, he quite liked it; he’d always recalled Muggle beverages as being somewhat sharp and sour, but it tasted refreshing in the heat.

Snape lifted the glass towards Dave.  “Cheers.”

“Yer welcome, lad.”  Dave crossed his arms and lent on the pumps. “Now, where the bloody hell have yer been, eh?”


End file.
